It’s been 5 months since I asked you to drive me home, and kissed you on my door step. We both knew it was goodbye. I told you I needed time to think, to figure out if you were worth the guilt I felt every time I thought of your wife, of your daughters. I thought it would be easier, living without you, and with a clearer conscience, but it isn’t. Because I still love you. Because I cry myself to sleep at night, and again in the mornings when I turn over and you’re not there.
And I still feel guilty. Your marriage is over. You told me that in your letter, the one I never answered because I didn’t know how, because if I did I would tell you everything and it would be so easy to slip back into being with you. You told me not to blame myself, that it was inevitable. You must have said it a hundred times, and I never quite believed you, just as you never quite believed me every time I told you I didn’t care how old you were. In your letter you said that she was relieved when you told her, that she was ready to be done too, that you’re amicable, still friends, that the girls are doing okay with the change. But I don’t know whether to believe that either. I love you, you wrote. Those same words over and over, crammed together, again and again the same phrase. I read every one.
I don’t know what to do now. I don’t want to live without you anymore.